Chapter 19

The days passed with a suffocating sense of inertia. Each visit to the hospital, each glance at Ryan’s unmoving form, deepened the pit of despair in my chest. My frustration with the police was growing. They seemed uninterested in finding Ryan’s shooter, and every time I tried to get information, I was met with excuses, delays, and outright dismissals. It was as if they were intentionally dragging their feet.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The evidence was minimal, sure, but it felt like the police weren’t even trying. Their disinterest was becoming too apparent to ignore. The nagging thought that they might be compromised or involved somehow wouldn’t leave my mind. But I had no proof, just a gut feeling that gnawed at me constantly.

One evening, after another frustrating day of getting nowhere with the police, I found myself outside a bar. I hadn’t planned on coming here, but my feet had led me here unconsciously. The need to escape, even just for a few hours, was overwhelming. I walked inside, the dim lights and murmur of voices offering a temporary reprieve from the relentless storm of my thoughts.

I ordered a drink, then another. The alcohol dulled the edges of my grief and anger, offering a fleeting sense of numbness that I desperately craved. For a moment, I didn’t have to think about Ryan lying in that hospital bed, or the investigation that was going nowhere. For a moment, I could just exist.

But the escape was short-lived. As I sat at the bar, nursing my drink, a man slid onto the stool next to me. He was tipsy, his words slurred as he tried to strike up a conversation. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, let alone flirt, but he wasn’t taking the hint. His persistence grew irritating, then unnerving, as his attempts to engage me became more invasive.

I decided it was time to leave. I threw some cash on the bar and got up to go, but the man followed me outside. The cool night air hit me like a slap, bringing with it a rush of clarity. But I was still unsteady, the alcohol making my movements slow and my thoughts sluggish. I fumbled for my car keys, trying to ignore the man’s presence, but he stepped closer, blocking my path.

“Hey, don’t be like that,” he slurred, his tone shifting from friendly to something more menacing. “I’m just trying to have a good time.”

“I’m not interested,” I said firmly, trying to push past him, but he grabbed my arm.

Panic flared in my chest. I yanked my arm free and took a step back, my heart pounding. “Leave me alone,” I warned, my voice shaking slightly, though I tried to sound strong.

But he didn’t listen. Instead, he lunged at me, his hands grabbing at my waist. The fear that had been simmering under the surface all night exploded into full-blown terror. My training kicked in, and I reacted on instinct. I swung my fist at his face, landing a solid punch on his nose. Blood spurted from his nostrils, and he stumbled back, clutching his face in surprise and pain.

“You bitch!” he snarled, his eyes blazing with fury. He took a step toward me, and I knew I had to act fast. My hand flew to my purse, fumbling for the small knife I carried for protection. But before I could pull it out, a deafening crack rang through the air.

The man’s eyes widened in shock. He stood frozen for a heartbeat, then crumpled to the ground. I stared in horror as blood pooled beneath his head, dark and viscous, staining the asphalt. My heart hammered in my chest, the sound echoing in my ears as I tried to process what had just happened.

Someone had shot him. But who? I spun around, my eyes darting to the shadows, but there was no one there. The street was empty, silent except for the distant hum of traffic. The realization that someone had been watching, that they had taken the shot to protect me—or perhaps to silence the man—sent a chill down my spine.

I sobered up instantly, the fog of alcohol lifting in the face of cold, hard reality. I needed to get out of there, to put as much distance between myself and the dead man as possible. My mind raced with fear and confusion as I fumbled with my keys, finally managing to unlock my car. My hands trembled as I gripped the steering wheel, the image of the man’s lifeless body burned into my mind.

The drive home was a blur. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see someone following me, but the road behind me remained empty. When I finally reached my apartment, I rushed inside, locking the door behind me and collapsing against it, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

When I turned back,I was shock to see the wall of my house has been smeared with bright angry red paint saying “ you belong to me?”